


Holding On to What I Want to Believe

by goingbadly



Series: Outtakes and Deleted Scenes: Separation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Captivity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Post-Reichenbach, dubcon, noncon, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:30:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty and John Watson are locked in a cell together. Moriarty decides the time is best spent twisting John to his will; Watson wants to be left alone, and hopefully escape back to Sherlock. </p><p> </p><p>John, of course, doesn’t stand a chance.<br/>[Stands on its own if you haven't read Separation]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On to What I Want to Believe

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mie, my devoted beta; this is one of a whole series of ships I wanted to do in Separation but didn’t get a chance to. It stands alone if you don’t want to read Separation, as well! If you /did/ read Separation this is sort of an alternate canon. It’s like fanfic for Separation. Fanfic of my own fanfic. Oh fuck what am I doing to myself? I took the title from NiN's Hand that Feeds, because - well, because. That song, man!
> 
> Anyways, thanks for your comments, kudos, and support!

The instant they’re locked in the cell Moriarty has John shoved against a wall. His breath is hot on John’s ear, his skeletal fingers tight on John’s shoulder. John can feel Moriarty press inwards, digging in his scar, seeking to rip him apart.

“Stop – _stop_ ,” John grunts out, trying to shove Moriarty off. John doesn’t worry about being particularly gentle, but Moriarty is hard to get a hold of – slipping and twisting out of grip as soon as John thinks he’s pinned.

Moriarty hisses, “Be a good little Doctor, _don’t move_ ,” and his fingernail digs in sharply, pressing on the twisted smooth tissue on John’s chest. John jerks, the old ache surging through him. He reaches up and gets a bruising grip on Moriarty’s wrist. Under his hand Moriarty’s pulse jumps, like a startled bird. Moriarty’s thigh presses hard between his legs. John’s chest heaves, heart pounding, throat thick with nausea at the thought of Moriarty touching him. He barely feels the cursory search Moriarty’s spare hand makes of his clothing. It doesn’t seem real, not in comparison to the remembered weight of the explosives Moriarty strapped around his chest all those months ago. John fights hard to calm himself, scrambling not to give in to panic.

When Moriarty can’t find a weapon or cell phone he steps almost immediately back.

“I was _searched,_ you know,” John snarls at him, to hide his relief at being released.

“Of _course_ you were,” Moriarty drawls, with a condescending smile. “But I’m generally _better_ at finding things than most people. Thought you might have a little surprise for me, Johnny-boy.”

“No. No surprises. Nope.” John’s fist works - nerves - and he can see Moriarty’s eyes flick down to it. That crocodile smile gets wider. John grits his teeth. He’s weighing the satisfaction of punching Moriarty against the danger of pissing off a murderous genius locked in a small room with nothing to do.

_Probably a bad bet, in the long run._

“I _gathered._ ” Moriarty grins, taps a bony finger against John’s nose, and bounces off across the room. He throws himself on the hard prison bed of their cell, stretches out, and smiles dazzlingly up at John.

“Don’t look at me like that,” John growls at him.

Moriarty laughs, bright and pleased, and rolls over to his stomach, kicking his heels in the air. “I haven’t even said anything _._ ”

“You just – stay on your side of the room, and I’ll stay on mine, and we won’t – we just won’t. Alright?” Even as John says it he feels a sinking feeling in his gut. Moriarty uncoils from the bed, smiling. The way he moves is like a small bird; constant, always fidgeting, always needing more stimulus. It reminds John of Sherlock when Sherlock doesn’t have a case, and doesn’t that make John _sick._

“Stay on my side of the room? No… no. I don’t think so. See, here’s the thing, Johnny.” Moriarty drones, “Here’s the _game._ There’s you and me and _Sherlock_ and _Moran._ Now we’ve gone and got ourselves locked away by some bad, bad men.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue, but his unblinking eyes never leave John’s face. “And they’re going to do some real _naughty_ things to us if we can’t get free. _Especially_ Sherlock.” When John opens his mouth to speak Moriarty’s face contorts like the footsteps of a demon are tracking over it. “They’re going to _flay_ him if we don’t get out,” Moriarty hisses. John freezes in place. “They’re going to _break_ him before they cut your _throat_ and then where will poor _Mary_ be with the _baby_?”

The words set John’s stomach on fire. Rage gives him the strength to move. He raises his fist and demands, “Don’t you – don’t you _dare_ – say a word about Mary to –“ but Moriarty just smiles, serene and untouchable.

“ _But…_ I can use you, John. I can take you… and I make you into a weapon. Then even the people holding us won’t stand a chance. I’m good with tin soldiers, after all. So how about it? For your friends. Say you’ll be my good little boy, and I’ll get us both out of here, and you can rescue dear Sherly.” Moriarty’s face goes round, mocking surprise with his chapped lips gaping open. “ _Ah!_ What? Can the big bad _Moriarty_ get us out of here?” John scowls. Moriarty grins again, showing small white teeth like out of place pearls in his mouth. “Play my game and find out. At least it’s not _boring._ ”

John’s throat feels dry and tight. He glances around the cell, looking anywhere but at Moriarty, just so the madman can’t leer in his face while he thinks. The bloody psycho is _right_ , after all. There’s only one conclusion John can come to.

_Mary, and the baby… and Sherlock._

_I have to get out of here somehow._

“…Right, then.”

“Sorry? Didn’t quite hear you, Johnny boy.”

John wants to kill Moriarty so badly he can taste it like a hangover in his throat. “I said, _right,_ then. I’ll work with you. Just till we get out of here.”

“Oh,” Moriarty says, deadpan. “ _Goody._ ”

\-----------------

 

\-----------------

Moriarty grabs John’s chin and twists his head this way and that. John tries to jerk his jaw free, but Moriarty’s grip is implacable. He tilts his head back to stare down his nose at John’s face, dark eyes flicking over each imperfection and wrinkle. John feels a shudder run down his spine, and tries not to notice Moriarty’s relishing smile.

John remembers rather forcefully the first week of basic, when all the alpha-dog lifers had tried to put him in his place. When _short_ had meant _weak,_ and _medical_ had meant _cowardly_ –

Funny, how John’s never forgotten the feeling of being small. Not in all those years. He lets his gaze slide away to the side, even though he knows it means Moriarty’s won.

“Come _on,_ Johnny-boy,” Moriarty purrs, with a slight shake of John’s chin, “It’s part of the game. _Follow along._ Now. _Fiiiiiirst_ of all. Whatever were you and Sherlock H _o_ lmes,” – accent on the _o_ , drawing it out, making Sherlock’s name into a joke – “Doing here?”

John glares at Moriarty, face feeling heavy and stern. He doesn’t try to fight away. Moriarty smiles dazzlingly back, his half-lidded eyes tracing down John’s face to his own fingers, wrapped around John’s jaw. He sighs like a teenage girl in love, leaning slightly forward.

“Nothing,” John grits at him, interrupting the movement, “We weren’t doing anything.”

“Oh,” Moriarty’s thumb taps on John in disappointment. “ _Ugh.”_ He lets his head drop backwards in disgust, slick hair shining in the uncertain light. His eyelids are thin and so pale John can see the red-and-blue of blood underneath his skin. “Don’t be so touching. I’m not going to _kill_ anyone just by knowing what you were sneaking around for, I mean, not _immediately._ I’m just trying to make conversation, get a little _closer_ to you.” His eyes snap open and his head slowly sinks back down to stare at John, weaving slightly on his neck like a snake. Moriarty’s Adam’s apple stands out starkly in his throat, each rung of his esophagus pressing against his skin. His attention feels grimy and thick, and the light in the cell only makes it worse; his face alternately shadow and pale, like a corpse. “Don’t move. I’ll make it easy for you. Tell me what you were doing here…”

The last syllable drags out over the silence between them. John screws his hand into a fist and counts to ten, refusing to ask what the end of the sentence is. Moriarty’s thumb moves on his skin, hot and clammy like a fever.

“…And I’ll let you go without hurting you. You can even pretend you _made_ me, all big and strong like a real soldier.” John tries and fails not to blink in surprise. Moriarty grins at him, and mimics the face back surprisingly well. John can recognize his own expression as it dances over the criminal’s face, Moriarty gasping in mock amazement. “Ah! _What?!_ Did you think I didn’t notice? You can’t hide how you want to be strong from _me_ , John Watson.” His voice on John’s name is a deep caress, smooth and promising. “You’re scared. You’re terrified. Big bad wolf got you shivering down to the hairs on your chinny-chin-chin…”

John stays rigid still on the floor. “You don’t scare me.”

“Yes, I _doooooo,_ ” Moriarty sings venomously back. In a fit of disappointment, he throws John’s head away from him. John’s neck snaps painfully, and he only catches himself from falling by hitting the wall of the cell. Unforgiving concrete bruises his hip and shoulder. He finds himself pressing back against it; watching warily as Moriarty stretches. Moriarty is catlike and writhing, the front of his suit tight over the bones of his ribs. Up close, when John has time to look, he’s startlingly skinny. “I am a _teensy_ bit disappointed. I didn’t _want_ to hurt you, I really didn’t.” Moriarty stares unblinkingly at John, a stray lock of hair falling over his eyes. They seem dark and bottomless, twin black holes with only a single pinprick of light. He swallows, and licks his lips. The light plays over his face, over his sunken cheekbones and domed forehead. “But now I’ve given my word…”

John, unable to take his gaze, turns his face away.

Moriarty laughs. The sound echoes off the claustrophobic ceiling, wild and sweet and utterly insane. John shudders, pressing back against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, and starts to think from one to a steadying ten – trying to remember Sherlock’s various classes of ash, how to clean a rifle, protocol for dealing with amputations. The seven times tables. Anything. _Anything_ except for the panicked thud of his heart in his chest.

A shadow falls over his shut eyes; darker than black. John opens them in time to see Jim, pressed close, still breathless on the end of his laugh. John opens his mouth, trying to escape through the solid concrete behind him.

“I don’t _want_ to hurt you,” Jim hisses, quiet and quick and violent, “But oh, _John,_ I _will,”_ and kisses him.

His lips seal hot and just a little sloppy over John’s; leaving a thin film of moisture behind. Moriarty’s teeth sink in John’s lip and pull it out, digging in with a sharp short jerk of pain that blooms out over John’s skin. He gasps, mouth opening, allowing Moriarty’s tongue to thrust between his lips, sliding with horrible intimacy into his mouth.

John puts both hands on Moriarty’s chest and shoves, hard.

Moriarty goes stumbling backwards, laughing again, hair mussed and eyes too wide to be sane. John wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Trust me, _Johnny,_ ” Moriarty sighs, “I’m going to hurt you _so badly._ ”

\-----------------

 

\-----------------

In the dark, slender fingers wrap around John’s wrist. He flounders upwards from a dream in which he’s drowning, in which he’s fallen into a devouring khaki-and-camo sea.

Moriarty is sitting on the floor, mouth pressed into an expressionless slash like a flatline. He’s holding John’s wrist, staring steadily, and it’s hard to make him out in great detail. The light outside their cell has dimmed, casting everything dark, and all that’s visible is the highlights of things. Moriarty’s hair. The luminous white of his skin.

 _When did I get on the cot?_ John thinks hazily.

“You were screaming,” Moriarty says, voice deep and slow and round.

_I was dreaming._

John’s pulse beats, supernaturally amplified by the pressure of Moriarty’s fingers against his vein. He tries to pull free but he’s still limp with sweat and terror.

“You were dreaming,” Jim repeats. “But you’re not in the war. You’re not. You’re here.”

\---------------

_You’re here._

If Moriarty mentions it in the morning John’s going to break his nose.

But in the dark, the words are a secret friend. _I’m here. And even here is better, even here is safer._ John doesn’t try to break Jim’s grip a second time, relaxing defeatedly into it. Moriarty nods, expression steady, and squeezes John tight before he bounces to his feet and stalks over to the wall by the door.

There he sits, turns his head away, and whistles like a bomb dropping.

Then nothing. Silence.

John stares at Moriarty’s averted face and can’t think of anything to say. _I’m here,_ he repeats to himself. Jim looks like a blank screen, an empty house, uninhabited and wooden. John rolls over to his other side, turning his back to the room. He breathes in deep and lets it out slow. _I’m here._

Somehow he’d known that Jim was brilliant, but never put it together that he must be observant as well. John’s curls his knees up closer to his stomach, clenching his fists in front of him. He’s no longer scared, although he can feel the sticky sweat of the nightmare clinging to his skin.

He can’t remember the last time he’s got over a flashback so quickly. He shifts, getting comfortable. _You’re here._

_You’re not in the war, you’re here._

John takes another deep breath. Jim knew. He knew what to say, how to calm John. There’s a sick, exposed feeling in John’s chest.

_He saw straight through me, into me, he laid me open…_

Just like that. Just with two words.

This time when John falls asleep, mercifully he dreams of nothing but an endless darkness like a black hole.

\-----------------

 

\-----------------

John’s awoken by a loud and persistent banging. Moriarty - back flat on the floor - is pounding at the door with his heels, hands linked merrily behind his head. “Will you bloody well stop?” John groans, pushing himself upright, “You’re going to sprain something and I am _not_ treating you.”

Like that’s a trigger, Moriarty pushes himself off the door in a blink, leaping up and rounding on John. His hair’s looking a little mussed after a night confined, and he has to shove it impatiently out of his face before he speaks. “If you don’t want me to _drum_ , you could at least be entertaining. You’ve been asleep for _hours._ Why don’t you give me something to do?”

“What could I possibly do that would –“

Jim hisses in frustration and spins away again. It’s oddly graceful, especially since he’s barefoot and in shirtsleeves. His suit jacket is meticulously folded away on the bunk, out of the dirt, along with his polished shoes and pristine tie. “I shouldn’t have to _give you the answers!_ ” he sings, sarcastic and venomous.

“Uh – I could - ”

“Oh, so you _are_ willing to try _,_ ” Jim gloats, just loud enough that John’s unsure whether or not he’s meant to hear. Moriarty stops moving. A beat of absolute, frozen stillness, where he looks like a statue; then he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. “And will you do anything, anything I ask?” he asks, mockingly.

“Well – not _anything…_ ” John replies, careful, sounding Jim out in case this is one of the strapping-bombs-to-John moods.

Jim looks back over his shoulder, just a hair, just enough so his eyelashes are framed in silhouette. “That’s not truuuuuue,” he sings, “And we both _know it._ ”

\-----------------

 

\-----------------

The grey sky whips clouds by behind Sherlock’s curls. John stretches his hand up; he can see Sherlock caught between his fingers, silhouetted. His dark hair sways in the wind, bouncing against the turned-up collar of his coat. _No,_ John says, _We can work this out. We can figure it out, Sherlock, don’t you do anything stupid._

 _But John,_ Sherlock says, _I can fly. See?_ He spreads his arms and they’re great wings, with black feathers like a crow. _I’m not stupid. I’m the cleverest man you’ve ever met, and I say I can fly._

He jumps. His body hangs in the wind for a long, drawn out moment, clouds whipping by in the sky behind his head.

 _Sherlock, NO!_ John’s scream rips out of his throat, leaving it raw and gaping behind. Sherlock’s wings spread, black feathers in silhouette. John can see, impossibly, the small smile on Sherlock’s face; the one he reserves for appreciating John. John feels hot tears push out of the corners of his eyes, furious and afraid and terribly, awfully alone.

 _I don’t know why you’re crying,_ Sherlock says, reasonably, _I’m perfectly fine._

He swoops through the air on his black-feathered wings, careless and untouchably high above John in the sky. The hot, horrible fear presses on John’s chest from the inside. He knows with a dreadful, deathly certainty, that they’ve been taking sniper fire all day. With the sure and unquestionable logic of dreams, the danger solidifies;

_Sherlock, no –_

Sherlock, so perfectly silhouetted against the sky. Such a brilliant target. Why didn’t he watch – why wasn’t he more careful –

Sherlock barely even cries out when two bullet wounds open in his chest, blossoming outwards, Sherlock blown hollow so John can see the sky through him. _John,_ he says, with an expression of wide-eyed surprise, _I don’t understand. Why am I falling?_

And John tries to scream but there’s nothing, nothing but Sherlock tumbling towards the ground with that awful expression like he still doesn’t know he’s dying –

\- and then Sherlock is on the ground, and his eyes are wide and glassy and there’s blood, god, there’s so much blood, and his skull is dented in and through the thick curls of his hair John can see the pink-and-grey of his brain, leaking outward, into the blood staining the pavement – and it smells of copper and wet concrete and Sherlock – and John’s hands won’t stop shaking – _he’s my friend – he’s my friend – he’s my –_

\---------------

“John. _John._ ”

John doesn’t even think – he just reaches out. In the dark his hands close around the crisp, stiff fabric of a button-down shirt. He pulls the warm weight of someone else’s body into his, bends his head, and inhales deeply.

_You’re here, you’re here –_

If what John smells isn’t safety, it’s blessedly grounding. Someone is whimpering, dim and unimportant, on the corners of his hearing. John supposes the sounds must be coming from him. His breathing is laboured and harsh, choking up his throat. He feels limp, clammy, like he’s been halfway drowned.

Cold fingers stroke through his hair, run down his spine. John shudders with revulsion under the touch, but he can’t help pressing forward; seeking warmth. Seeking comfort.

“You’re here with me,” Jim says again, slow and careful. “No more nightmares. See? All safe here, John Watson.” His fingers play down John’s back. John trembles again, and loathes himself for not pulling back. Jim’s fingertips settle at the base of his neck and take up a probing massage. It’s painful at first, but John feels his shoulders start to ease, unwillingly, under Jim’s ministrations. “There you go. Don’t be so nervous. You’re here… and that nasty Sherlock can’t hurt you again.” At that John finally finds the strength to try and get up, but Jim – still unexpectedly strong – holds him down. “No, no. Plausible deniability, remember? You didn’t know what you were doing. You were still dreaming. You’d _never,_ Johnny, I know. You’re still half-asleep. You don’t know _what_ you’re doing…”

Jim keeps it up, a thin steady stream as he maneuvers John back down onto the bed. He wraps himself around John’s side, one arm thrown over John’s chest, head tucked into John’s shoulder. John feels Jim’s leg slide between his own as Jim shifts, finding a comfortable space on the narrow cot. Against John’s ribs Jim’s heart beats. His chest is hot. His fingertips are restless, drumming against John’s skin. He feels like an octopus wrapped around John’s side, a sea creature of some sort, cold-blooded and sinuous…

But he’s alive, and human, and warm.

“You’re _here,_ ” Jim repeats, and John - despite himself - lets himself teeter back on the edge of sleep. “No war. No Fall. You’re here.”

In the darkness waits the other dream, the great nothing, like a black hole. _But at least,_ John thinks, before he goes over entirely, _it’s not nightmares…_

\-----------------

“Did he even tell you why he brought you here? _”_

“No.”

Jim pulls a face. “Shame. I _did_ hope Sherly had finally found someone he could trust. Thought he wasn’t alone anymore. It is _awful,_ being brilliant and lonely.” He rocks on his heels and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say - _well, so much for that._

“He _does_ trust me. He tells me what I need to –“

“He doesn’t tell you _anything._ ” Jim’s bare toes trace spirals over the dirty cement floor as he turns yet again. He straightens his shirt with an angry yank, making one of the buttons (hanging only by a desperate thread) jump and sway. The hollow of his throat seems improbably deep, his collar-bones clean and stark. When he screws up his face to pout there’s a twitch in his temple to mark his pulse. “He has you as a little pet. Like his skull on the mantle. Do you want to know how easy it is to win the loyalty of a man like you, Johnny-boy? All Sherlock has to do is keep suggesting he might wrap those talented lips of his around your cock one day. Poor John Watson, in denial… you’ll trot along beside him for _ages._ All he has to worry about is cleaning your saliva up off the floor. _Booooring._ ”

“I’m not _gay –_ “

“That just makes it easier, doesn’t it? You’ll never make him follow through. Too busy defending your masculinity. Oh, Sherly. What a brilliant set-up he’s got…”

“Why the bloody hell do you think I would believe you? Sherlock is my – he’s my best friend. You’re a bloody psychopath.”

“Oh, and that’s why he tells you all the important things… Like about why he came here…”

“Sherlock wouldn’t keep something important from me. He’d tell me. If I needed to...” John trails off, and then, defensively, adds. “He certainly bloody well wouldn’t tell you.”

Jim just raises his eyebrows.

“He would _not_!”

“I _told_ you Sherly was lonely. Do you know what it’s like to be empty? To just go on _going_ , just _on._ When there’s not a thing in the world that can make you do anything you don’t want to do. That’s boring. And boredom will kill you, will it _ever_.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting that Sherlock and you had some sort of… connection?” John laughs incredulously, but to his appalled surprise, Jim nods. He looks thoughtful.

“More than you ever did with him. You’re ordinary. You really don’t have any idea what it’s like, in the end. You don’t know how it feels for him and I.” A grin replaces Jim’s thoughtful expression, quick and cruel like frost. “Although, to be honest, he never understood _me,_ either. After all, I don’t do what he does, Johnny-boy. I don’t play games when I want someone’s loyalty. I ask for it. And they give it to me.”

“Are you trying to convince me I should like you more than Sherlock? You don’t – you have no idea what it’s like - ”

“Don’t be silly, Johnny. We’re more alike than you and him ever were. He never understood what it’s like to come home scarred and broken, did he? I wouldn’t have used your desire against you if I’d found you first. Better to take it, and leave you stronger. I could draw it all out of you. Like sucking a snakebite. I still could…”

“Don’t,” John says, but even to him, it sounds weak.

\---------------

 

\---------------

Jim does John the kindness of waiting until he’s asleep to slip between John and the wall. John pretends that Jim doesn’t wake him up. That way, when Jim worms his way backwards – wiggling his hip in under John’s hand – John can pretend he doesn’t know. He can pretend Jim’s warm back isn’t pressing in to his chest. He can pretend that the nightmares don’t clear away from the edges of his mind, chased away by Jim’s presence.

John wraps his arm tight around Jim’s slim waist, in the darkness, and pretends he’s still sleeping.

\---------------

\---------------

“Tell me you didn’t like it,” Jim says, with a rakish grin, beating his heels against the legs of the cot. “The war. Being a soldier. _Killing._ ”

John looks away from the hinges of the door, which are predictably impossible to loosen. “No! _God,_ no.”

“Oh, pff,” Jim complains, rolling his eyes, “You were doing so well, don’t be boring now. Everyone does. At least a _little._ ”

“Well – _maybe_ – Not everyone is a murderous psychopath. Did you think about that?”

“Um…” Jim glances to the side, raising his eyebrows as if sharing with an imaginary audience how ridiculous John’s being. “I’m not talking about hanging kiddies from the ceiling while you have a wank, Johnny. No – nothing so _crude._ Tell me you didn’t feel a little righteous. Tell me you didn’t feel like _God._ ”

John swallows hard and tries not to taste the desert in it. “No – No. I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you? When you were invading Afghanistan? _No_? Hm. Maybe it was after, then. Maybe it was _Sherlock._ ” Jim’s smile spreads slow and even across his face. “When you shot that cabbie, you felt good, didn’t you? You felt _alive._ For the first time since the war. You made yourself hold back, and hold back, and hold back, _waiting, **teasing,**_ until you knew you could justify it. Until you knew you could call him the _bad guy._ But you wanted to shoot him from the very start, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.” John turns back to the door, and tells himself he’s not hiding his face.

Jim’s voice is a seductive purr. “You knew you wanted to shoot him the moment you saw he had Sherly…”

“ _Stop._ ”

“ - And it would have been good, wouldn’t it, shooting him, would have been _so_ good, would have made you feel _righteous,_ but then Sherlock would have known what a bad dark boy you are – “

John rounds, his fists clenched by his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I did!” he barks, cutting Jim off. “Alright? Or I _wanted_ to. But I _didn’t_ shoot until I had to. That’s the difference between me and you – although I bloody well hope it’s not the only one. I will _never_ shoot until I have to, I _won’t_ , because I’m not a _bloody_ animal, I’m a human being – “

“But you _are_ an animal _,_ John Watson. We all are. Just underneath our skins.” Jim stretches, suit pressing against his bones, dark eyes devouring. “Animals. Killers. Red in tooth and claw.”

\---------------

 

\---------------

Sherlock stands at the edge, at Reichenbach, at the Fall. He holds up his cell phone to his ear. John, ever obedient, lifts his as well. The plastic is cold and smooth underneath his fingers, and he half imagines it slipping out of his grasp to shatter in a million pieces across the paving stones.

Like Sherlock will, in a minute.

 _It was easy,_ Sherlock says in his ear.

_What? Sherlock, no, come – come down from there, we can make this –_

Sherlock sighs. _Don’t make this difficult, John. You’ve been so good this far._

 _What are you saying?_ John raises his hand, as if he can ward off the inevitable step that’s coming. As if he can push Sherlock back on the roof.

 _All I had to do was make you think I could love you,_ Sherlock says, inflectionless and cold. _Simple, really. And you did whatever I said._

John freezes. _What…?_

Then he’s behind Sherlock on the roof. Sherlock half-turns his head, so John sees him in profile; backlit by the shifting, mercurial clouds.

 _Push me,_ Sherlock says.

 _No,_ John protests, watching his hands rise. Feeling them placed flat on the stiff wool of the Belstaff coat, cold and faintly wet.

_Push me. All I had to do was pretend I could love you and you did whatever I said – push me, John – all I had to do was act like I loved you – push me – all I had to say was ‘do it for me’ – **push** – _

John, with frozen horror, takes a half-step forward, braces himself, and shoves Sherlock off the roof of St. Bart’s hospital.

\---------------

John wakes up already halfway out of bed, with warm hands in the darkness pulling him back down. He struggles for a moment, cursing and throwing punches at the blackness, but in the end Jim wrestles him down to the sheets. He’s surprisingly strong for his size. John breathes in short, tight gasps, heart ricocheting around his rib-cage, stomach twisting in panic. He shoves a hand through his hair, damp and sticking up at odd angles, then presses it to his chest; trying to slow his heart. It’s so dark there’s no difference when John’s eyes are open or shut. Jim pins John to the bed with his bodyweight, settling in over John’s hips. His hand reaches out, folds over John’s own palm on his chest. John feels his heart thud against Jim’s fingers, takes a deep breath, and lets himself calm.

_You’re not in the war. You’re here._

“That’s it, John,” Jim murmurs, voice low and surprisingly deep; just for a minute – just for a hair’s width of perception, slim and ungraspable as deja-vu – he sounds like Sherlock.

 _Don’t,_ John tells himself immediately, _don’t go there, don’t think it._

But it’s been thought, and it can’t be taken back. Jim’s fingers curve around John’s hand, holding it to his chest. “Here you are,” he croons, leaning forward to press his lips to john’s knuckles. “Heart… Lungs… Life. Here you are, Johnny-boy. Right here.”

John breathes out raggedly. Jim’s lips, cold and chapped, brush the hollow of his throat. His tongue follows, tracing a bead of sweat down to John’s collar-bone. John squirms, and comes up against the implacable weight of Jim on his hips and stomach. It shouldn’t be _comforting,_ being pinned. It shouldn’t make him feel safe, and solid.

“Get off,” John rasps, barely more than a whisper.

“No,” Jim replies calmly. He lets go of John’s hand, and his fingers trace downwards; over John’s heaving stomach, over his hipbones, to the soft meat of his thigh. Jim places his palm flat, there. In the darkness John can’t see anything. It’s like being blindfolded. Like dreaming. Jim’s breath gusts on his cheek, and then he takes John’s lip between his teeth; a sharp snag of pain, followed by a wet curl of tongue to sooth it.

John breathes out, and a warm heat builds low in his stomach; hot, hard, reassuringly alive. Jim’s breath smells sweet, and faintly rotten, like a corpse.

“ _Don’t,_ ” John says again, and even to him it sounds like a broken moan.

“Shhh,” Jim croons, and kisses him. Not gentle. Not soft. Desperate and wanting and obliterating, and for a reeling moment John wonders if it’s possible to fall upwards; because he is, tumbling without gravity upwards into Jim’s mouth. His thoughts blank out. Jim’s hands on his skin feel like fire. The weight of Jim’s body, pressing John down into the cot, might as well be a thousand pounds.

_This is wrong, this is really really not good, I should – I should –_

He opens his mouth to protest again, and Jim’s knuckles brush down the length of John’s cock, pressing against the rough fabric of his jeans. Whatever John was going to say, he loses it in an expulsion of breath against Jim’s lips. Jim chuckles, low and dark, and John feels him pull at the button of John’s jeans. There’s a tingling heat running down John’s limbs, a desperate need to be out of the loneliness and out of the war. He feels like he’ll burst through his skin if he doesn’t find some way to escape; and just when John knows it’s driving him mad, there’s Jim, shoving his hand down John’s boxers and wrapping a hot fist tight around his cock.

It’s wrong. There’s no way around it. John shouldn’t want this, and he hates Jim and himself in equal measures. He hates the muscles of his stomach that clench and roil under Jim’s weight, hates the soles of his feet for the way they plant on the mattress and thrust him upwards into Jim’s hand.

But the taste of blood is thick in his mouth and the smell of Sherlock clouds his nostrils and he just – wants – out –

John feels hot tears sting at the corners of his eyes as Jim starts to suck a bruise into his throat. Each stroke of Jim’s hand on his cock feels like fireworks, hyper-real and hungry, stoking the heat in his stomach. Without consciously deciding to, John feels himself start ripping at Jim’s clothing. Jim laughs in the darkness, quiet and intimate, then there’s a soft rustle of fabric and his shirt is gone. His bare chest is prickled with goosebumps under John’s hands. His ribs press hard against his skin. When John leans up, Jim tastes of salt; of sweat and earth. He’s hotter than any human has any right to be, burning like a fire is consuming him from the inside out.

“Oh, John,” he moans, voice deep, and John lets himself, for a spinning moment, imagine that it’s Sherlock over him.

But he doesn’t really want that. Doesn’t want Sherlock. Doesn’t want anyone. Just another warm body in the darkness, and oh, Jim is that. He’s hot and writhing under John’s hands, pleading for more as John bites into his collar. His fingers go loose on John’s cock as he loses concentration, clutching helplessly at John’s arm. John lets his mouth trail lower, licking spirals over heated skin. He only pauses to suck and nibble and bite until Jim is moaning again, grinding his hips forward into John’s leg.

John flips them over on the mattress, rolling until Jim is caught underneath him. He tries not to think about that – about anything. _Don’t think, just feel, if you let yourself think about this rationally you’ll go mad –_

There’s a sharp inhale, like fear, and then John shoves Jim’s trousers down over his bony hips and Jim’s breathing stops entirely.

“Please,” someone says, into the darkness, quiet and wrecked.

John bends his head to Jim’s chest, continues licking his way downwards over the flat plane until he reaches Jim’s nipple; sucks it in over his teeth, rolling the flesh over in his mouth. Jim cries out, and hot fingers twine painfully tight in John’s hair. It’s not that much different than a woman beneath him; and John knows this game, knows it well enough to lose himself in it.

He wants the other man to come undone underneath him; wants to give pleasure as much as take it, wants to prove himself still capable and still alive.

_Don’t let yourself think about who it is – just shut your eyes and feel –_

In the darkness John lifts his head, and moves up over Jim until their cocks are slotted together. The head of Jim’s shaft brushes against his glans, sending bright sparks of sensation down towards John’s toes. John gasps. The hand in his hair tugs him upwards, into another demanding kiss. John can feel the urgency in it; and he’s done this a hundred times, _Three Continents Watson,_ and there’s a comfort and a familiarity to it, and god he needs, he just _needs –_

John rolls his hips forward, moaning at the drag of hot sensitive skin against his own. Underneath him Jim is writhing, his breath hitching vulnerably in his throat. On the next thrust his hips cant upwards, rocking himself into John. John loses the kiss and it becomes a messy slide of open mouths, Jim panting deliriously against John’s cheek, black hair plastered by sweat against John’s skin. They’re both damp, now, slick skin sliding on the bed, and Jim’s fist tightens until John’s scalp is alight with the painful pull of his hair.

It doesn’t matter. The pressure building in his stomach is hot and insistent and John can feel it curling around his hips, each slide of their bodies against each other driving him insane like they’re driving nails straight into his brain. He can’t _think,_ can barely _breathe,_ and he doesn’t care about anything but chasing the climax just out of his reach.

John barely feels Jim go rigid underneath him. The cry Jim buries with his teeth in John’s shoulder doesn’t register. But the hot pulse of liquid onto John’s cock is too much. The next slick thrust is so wet it’s almost without friction, his cock slipping through the thick come coating his stomach and Jim’s. John feels a burst of pleasure start in the back of his head, a white-hot wave that crests over him in pulses like the beat of his pounding heart. He gives in to it; lets climax scrape him clean, leaving him blind and limp and for once – blessedly – thoughtless.

\---------------

 

\---------------

“What did you do – you made me – I wouldn’t have – “

“Of _course_ not, John. That wasn’t you.” Jim stretches languidly on the bed, nude and unselfconscious. His fingers trail down his torso, following the drying lines of come over his skin. “ _Gosh,_ I’m a mess, though…”

“Shut up. Shut _up._ I would never have –“

“ _Johnny,”_ Jim huffs, abruptly bored. “I _told_ you. We’re all animals in the end. Sherlock. Me. You. Just feeding and killing and fucking our way to the grave, no matter what he wants to say about _transport._ You and I understand better, don’t we, John?”

“There is no _we,_ ” John says, feeling sick.

“After last night, I disagree.” Jim reaches up, grabs John’s wrist. His grip is startlingly tight, fingers hot. “Feel that? The pump of blood? Come on, Doctor Watson. It makes you hot, doesn’t it, makes you want... oh, just give in. It’s so much sexier.”

“I _won’t._ Because I’m _more_ than an animal.”

“Are you?” Jim leers, lets his eyes trail insultingly down John’s still-naked body. “Couldn’t prove it by me…”

John snarls. He grabs Jim’s hand and wrenches it off him, tossing Jim back against the wall. Away from John. He means it as a break, as an ending…

But Jim thuds as he hits the wall, and exhales weakly. He clutches his injured wrist to his chest and blinks up at John, wide, soft eyes, vulnerable and hurting. His skin is still bruised with the marks of John’s teeth. On his next inhale he makes a quiet noise, just this side of fear, and John _wants_ that. He needs it. He needs to take back control, prove that Jim isn’t right, can’t control John.

Jim’s faking. Part of John can tell that. Part of John knows this is all another move in the game. But he can see Jim’s pulse jump in the thin, pale skin of his throat, and he can see Jim swallow, and he doesn’t _care_ that it’s all lies. He wants Jim to be afraid of him. Jim to _quail_ underneath him. Jim to beg – Jim to _hurt –_

John growls angrily to himself, clenching his fist. He lets it rise, and weighs the action – thinking with longing of the way Jim’s flesh would dent inwards under his blows, how the bruises would swell to the surface, the unwilling noises of pain Jim would make. But he can’t bring himself to follow through. John’s fist hesitates in the air and he licks his lips, struggling for control. _This is wrong – this is what Moriarty wants –_

“What is it, Doctor Watson,” Jim spits goadingly, shoving himself upwards on his elbows, still cradling his injured wrist. “Can’t bring yourself to touch me? Don’t remember you having that problem before.” He leers, sucks a thumb in his mouth and runs it down his exposed torso. “I can get myself started if you’re nervous…”

Something snaps in John’s chest. He shuts his eyes and opens them to a view of his fist making contact with Jim’s nose. He barely has time to process the first blow when he sees himself pull back and duke Jim again, across the cheekbone. And again: using the swing of his shoulders to put weight into his haymaker punches. John’s not sure what splits first; Jim’s lip or the skin over his knuckles. Jim sags backwards against the wall, blood spattered up over the straight line of his nose, and starts to laugh. John has to haul him upright to punch him again. His fingers are slippery on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim is still laughing that ghastly laugh; teeth stained watery red.

“Shut _up_ ,” John tells him, “Shut _up!_ ”

But Jim doesn’t. John slams him still-laughing back against the wall, pinning him there. His chest heaves as he shoves his thigh between Jim’s legs. Jim arches against him with a groan, his over-heated skin pressing hard into John’s. John grabs his wrists and forces them above his head, and Jim moans, and the sound is more than half fear. John snarls triumphantly, pulling Jim off the wall just so he can slam him back harder. Jim’s skull cracks against the concrete and his moans break off into a dazed, painful silence.

“Is this what you wanted?” John barks, “ _Is it?!_ ”

Jim giggles breathlessly. John lets go of one of Jim’s wrists to wrap his hand around Jim’s throat. His fingers dig in to the sensitive skin, squeezing around the jugular, cutting off air. Against his palm Moriarty’s throat works, and those brilliant dark eyes well up with tears. Jim’s face is flushing, now, looking distinctly more worried as he struggles for air. His free hand comes up to clutch at John’s arm – not trying to free himself, not yet, and John would find that worth noting only he’s too busy wanting more of Jim’s _fear._

“I’m not your little boy on a leash, eh,” John says, shaking Jim by the throat. “ _Am I._ ”

Jim opens his mouth to croak a response and John takes the hand off his throat long enough to slap him. Not as hard as he can, but letting the weight of his arm go into it. Jim’s head snaps to the side and when he looks back at John, there it is; the flicker of fear in his eyes, real or faked. _God,_ John wants that. He hits Jim again, and again, until Jim’s lips are painted red with his own blood. Jim’s dark eyes flick over John’s faced, dazed and unseeing, and John feels something surge in his heart; a dark, disturbing growl like a triumphant beast. Jim sags weakly in John’s grip. John’s thumb digs into his wrist. Air wheezes shallowly over Jim’s split and bloodied lips. He looks up at John, pupils blown with adrenaline and fear.

“Is that… all…?” he asks breathlessly. John growls. His eyes flick down Jim’s pale, bare chest, already bruised with the imprints of John’s teeth.

John needs to _humiliate_ Jim. Put Jim in his _place._

It’s the last thing John thinks before he crushes his mouth down on Jim’s. Not really a kiss; not even the meaningless physical kisses of last night. This is degradation. This is _proving_ to Jim who’s in control here. John forces his tongue into Jim’s mouth, bites at Jim’s split lips, tasting nothing but blood when he licks his way in. Underneath him Jim moans and struggles weakly – trying to pull away, maybe, but John doesn’t care. He grabs Jim’s chin, forcing it up into the kiss. _Three Continents Watson._ John puts all his skill and experience into tearing Jim apart, until Jim is panting and writhing against the wall.

John pulls back to look at Jim. Flooded eyes blink up at him; deceptively large, framed in long dark lashes like bruises. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of Jim’s mouth down towards his chin. His lips are parted: breath caught in them, the inside of his mouth a vibrant pink. His high cheekbones are flushed over his sunken cheeks. He twitches under John’s stare and John feels a smile spread across his face like a snarl.

“Is this what you wanted?” He asks. Jim’s cock is hard against his stomach, his hips hitching upwards.

Jim licks his lips. “John – “ he starts, voice weak.

“ _Is it?_ ” John barks. His grip tightens on Jim’s throat and wrist.

“ _Yes –_ “ Jim whispers, throwing his head back, eyes shut, “John, please – “

_Begging. He’s begging me._

The rush of power through his skull makes John groan. He throws Jim down from the wall, face-first onto the mattress. Jim sprawls out obscenely on the sheets, legs splayed, cock hard between his legs. He starts to push himself back up and John plants a hand between his shoulders, shoving him hard into the pillows. Jim moans theatrically, his hair a haze of black against the once-white pillows. He twists his head, lips parted, eyes sliding back through his lashes to find John. He wets his lips and swipes a drop of blood from them, bright red on the pointed tip of his pink tongue.

John runs his hand down to the curve of Jim’s ass, gropes it hard, and slaps it to set the pale flesh jiggling. His hand stings from the force of the blow. The smack of flesh on flesh echoes in the room. Jim jerks, gasping as his pale skin flushes, and John smacks him again; palm prints overlapping, Jim’s skin red-hot and burning under John’s hands. Jim ruts himself against the bed, helpless against John’s strength. John’s chest clenches with vindictive pleasure. He lets his fingers trail down Jim’s spine to his entrance, half teasing, half threatening.

“You know, I’m not sure I should _bother,_ ” John muses, running a finger down Jim’s cleft, over the puckered skin of his asshole. Jim moans, pressing back against John’s finger. John smacks him again. “Listen to me, _Moriarty:_ shall I finger you first? Or fuck you _dry_?”

“Finger me, _please,_ ” Jim pants over his shoulder, campy and over-dramatic, “Oh, _please,_ Johnny, should I tell you I _need_ – “

He sounds like he’s mocking. _Got to put a stop to **that.**_ Jim breaks off with a cry as John shoves two fingers into him, nothing but a thin coat of saliva to ease their way. He squirms against the mattress, breath hitching noisily in his throat. He’s probably in pain, but John isn’t concerned with being a considerate lover. Around John’s fingers Jim is clenched impossibly tight; John groans, fucking his fingers in and out of Jim, just _imagining_ what it will feel like around his cock.

Jim’s shoulders rise and fall raggedly with his breath. His spine arcs, tilting his ass off the bed, pushing against John’s fingers.

“You like that?” John hears himself say, only half caring that it’s clichéd porn dialogue. “I’m going to fuck you until you bloody well can’t stand, and you can’t do anything about it.”

“Please,” Jim simpers, playing straight into John’s dominance fantasy; pressing back into each thrust of John’s fingers like the stretch isn’t painful at all. “ _Please._ ”

John, figuring Jim’s gotten a little _too_ comfortable, forces a third finger in. Jim cries out brokenly, collapsing forward against the mattress, ribs visible as his lungs heave for air. His cock is leaking precum down onto the sheets, a thin dark line between his legs. John has to lean back, taking his free hand off Jim’s shoulders to wrap it around his own cock. He strokes loosely, relieving the pressure building in his stomach. Jim writhes against the sheets, three of John’s fingers working in and out of his ass. Lewd, wet sounds fill the air; the smell of sweat, Jim’s soft broken cries like an animal in pain.

John tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut. _Fuck._ He pulls his hand from Jim’s ass and Jim moans brokenly, grinding himself down against the sheets.

“If you don’t want to get fucked dry,” John manages, between gritted teeth, not quite sure he’s getting the words out without slurring. He strokes himself again, keeping his grip deliberately loose, dragging a bead of precum down his shaft. _Oh, fuck._ The motion whites out several key areas of his brain and he loses the end of the sentence.

But Jim doesn’t need prompting. When John opens his eyes and looks down, Jim’s flipped himself over on the bed. Hands and knees, he looks up at John with those wide, helpless eyes. John wraps his hand around the base of his cock and guides it forwards, towards those pink and trembling lips.

It’s not until Jim grins that John thinks about teeth, but it’s too late then. Jim wraps his hand around John’s, and sucks John’s cock down to the base almost in one go. A harsh noise rips from John’s stomach through his chest; Jim’s mouth is as hot and tight as his ass, and his tongue presses hard against the vein on the base of John’s cock. Hot, impatient nerves fire all along John’s spine, prickling down his thighs to his toes, and he nearly loses it then. Just as he’s about to pull Jim off, or blow his load down Jim’s throat, a brief scrape of teeth brings him crashing back to earth. Jim glances up at him, cheeks hollowed as he slides his way back down John’s cock, and there it is again; that painful prick of teeth, just at the base, like a warning. Easing John back from his orgasm, leaving another slick coat of saliva behind.

John snarls, fists his hand in Jim’s hair, and rips him off. “Was that bloody _teeth_ I just felt?”

There’s a shiny drop of pre-cum or saliva on Jim’s lips. He licks it off, and smiles breathlessly at John, no longer playing the helpless victim. “You needed it,” he says.

John throws him down again, on his back this time. Jim laughs, reaching up, pulling John to him. All pretense gone, now. No longer helpless and writhing. He tilts his hips up, wrapping his legs around John’s waist.

“Come on, now,” Jim pants, as John snarls angrily, “Make me _hurt,_ Johnny-boy. You want me _broken_ – “

 _I’ll show you –_ John thinks, lining himself up, _You want to be broken? Fine –_

He shoves himself inside Jim in one hard, brutal thrust, Jim clenched so tight around his cock that John thinks he’ll have bruises on his shaft. Jim cries out, his fingernails scratching down John’s back. His ankles press hard against John, pushing John’s cock deeper into him. John’s chest folds over Jim’s, and he can feel Jim’s rapid heart pounding against his skin. Jim’s hips tilt up, urging John on. John thrusts into the tight, wet heat of Jim, and it’s like losing his mind. He moans, dropping his head to Jim’s shoulder, tasting the salt of Jim’s skin. Jim’s breath is ragged in his ear. John’s skin tingles, and there’s a _hunger_ in him; he couldn’t stop now, even if he wanted to. Even if Jim is begging for more, harder. Even if there’s a niggling doubt - in the part of John’s mind still capable of thought - that he was ever in control to begin with.

“You’re mine,” Jim breathes into John’s ear, “You crave the danger, John, and the darkness, and I will give it to you. All of it.”

John bites at Jim’s shoulder and thrusts harder, knowing there wasn’t enough lube and there wasn’t enough prep and this _should_ hurt Jim, this _has_ to hurt Jim, only Jim’s still gasping for more. His cock brushes rigidly against John’s stomach with each thrust, leaking hot pre-cum, and his nails leave bloody lines on John’s back.

“ _There,_ John, _yes, fuck,_ oh, like _that_ – “

John pounds into him, fucking Jim harder and rougher than he’s ever fucked anyone; losing himself in Jim’s flesh, in the wracking cries he can drag from Jim’s throat. Jim’s skin sticks to John’s, damp with sweat. The muscles of John’s stomach clench, his upper thighs going tense as pleasure starts to tighten in his balls. John wraps a hand around Jim’s cock and strokes, too hard, knowing it will be painful; knowing Jim will want that. Jim moans, throwing his head back on the pillows, throat bare and bruised from John’s teeth. John, for a moment, deludes himself into thinking that orgasm is a way of making Jim surrender to him. But there’s no surrender here except John’s. Jim arches up as he comes, off the bed; wrapping himself skin-tight around John, until there’s no room to breathe between them. His muscles clench hard, milking John’s cock, but it’s his broken moan at John’s ear that does it –

“ _Now,_ John, _now –_ “

John’s orgasm slams into him like a brick wall at a thousand miles per hour. He collapses forward, pinning Jim to the bed, shuddering as his cock pulses into Jim’s unresisting body. He can’t do anything for a moment but breathe; feeling Jim’s heat against his own, the gradual softening of his cock in Jim’s ass, the lazy stroke of Jim’s fingers down his spine.

And afterwards - flowing in to fill the emptiness after pleasure - comes self-loathing like a tide.

\---------------

John pulls off and rolls away, skin crawling. _How could I – I just –_ He sits on the side of the bed and rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling like a fever has just broken in side him. Behind him he can hear the rustle of the sheets, the creak of the mattress, as Jim sits up.

Hot fingers trace the scratches Jim’s nails left over John’s back.

“It’s alright, Johnny-boy,” Jim drawls, amused.

“No it’s – it’s bloody well _not,_ how can you –“

“Shhh,” Jim wraps himself around John from behind, chest sticky against the blood on John’s back. “Sherlock would never understand, if he knew what came home from the war. But I do. You wanted to rape me, didn’t you, my dear Doctor Watson?”

John shuts his eyes and hates himself with a purity that borders on pain.

“Shh. Shh.” Jim’s lips press clumsily at his ear. “You never have to say anything out loud. I’ll hear you anyways. I know you, after all. Who you were meant to be.” John feels his head turn, just a fraction, into Jim. Jim nips at the skin of John’s neck, where bruises already mark him. “It’s all over now. And it’s all right. I want your loyalty, Johnny. I _want_ the monster that came home from the war.”

John feels himself start to nod in dull, hopeless surrender, and shuts his eyes.

\---------------

 

\---------------

When the guards open the door they find Jim naked in bed, covered in blood and bruises. John, fully clothed, sits on the floor by his feet. They get three steps into the room before John holds up a hand to stop them. His eyes flick to Jim on the bed, and Jim looks back; eyes dark and wide and inscrutable.

“Get up,” one of the guards barks, but John doesn’t move.

Not until Jim nods his permission. Then John, obediently, stands.


End file.
